


Because I Could Not Stop For Death (Ghost!Sam/Ghost!Dean, R)

by buttsnax



Series: Supernatural Ghosts [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Slash, Wincest - Freeform, ghost fiction, ghost swords, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 01:20:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttsnax/pseuds/buttsnax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I'm so tired of fighting ghosts!” yelled Dean, unnecessarily loud over the eery silence of ghost combat. He and Sam had found themselves in a graveyard, fighting spirits yet again. This seemed to happen to them a lot, probably because they were semi-professional supernatural ghost hunters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Because I Could Not Stop For Death (Ghost!Sam/Ghost!Dean, R)

“I'm so tired of fighting ghosts!” yelled Dean, unnecessarily loud over the eery silence of ghost combat. He and Sam had found themselves in a graveyard, fighting spirits yet again. This seemed to happen to them a lot, probably because they were semi-professional supernatural ghost hunters.

Sam nodded, his flannel shirt and muddied boots conveying the appropriate amount of rugged masculinity needed for this activity. “Yeah, this is starting to get old.” He launched a punch at what he believed was a ghost's face (it was hard to tell with ghosts), but his fist soared through the specter and collided with a tombstone instead.

“Dammit," Sam cursed, clutching his throbbing knuckles. "Fuck these ghosts."

“What, really?” asked Dean. A female ghost winked at him before unhinging her jaw and diving for his flesh. He ducked just in time but glanced over his shoulder to get a look at her derriere as she soared past him. The ghost could have been male--to be honest it didn't really matter. Dean was very lonely.

“No, not literally,” sighed Sam, exasperated. A ghost tried to bite his arm but luckily the ghost had poor eyesight and missed. “They don’t have, like, genitals. I think.”

Maybe the brothers were seeing things, but it seemed as though more and more ghosts were materializing with every passing second.

Sam paused from ineffectually fighting the apparitions to reflect on how they got there, and came to the conclusion that the demon they'd asked for directions had lied to them. This didn’t look like Seaworld _at all._

The ghosts swooped down on the brothers in attack, their ghost jaws widening like black holes.

“Careful, Dean,” said Sam as the ghosts surrounded them. “Whatever you do, don't let them bite you.”

“I know,” said Dean, rubbing a suspicious bite-shaped mark on his left arm. He hid the wound behind his back before Sam could notice.

A ghost grinned at them, bearing his ghost teeth like a Cheshire cat.

“Oh, we’re not going to bite you,” it said as it pulled out a ghost sword, its fellow ghosts following suit.

"Well shit," Sam cursed. “I knew I shouldn’t have killed all those swords yesterday.”

“It's okay,” said an unnamed female character, who was also in this story. "I'm here to help." A ghost lunged toward her, sword at the ready, but she was written out of the story before the ghost could reach her.

“This is super fucked up,” Dean cried, clearly touched by the poignant loss of someone important enough to have a speaking role.

“Super _naturally_ fucked up,” countered Sam.

A ghost took a swipe at Dean’s head with its ghost claws, narrowly missing. “I am so done with this lifestyle,” Dean said. “As soon as we finish up here let's agree to never fight ghosts again."

"Okay," said Sam, who had given up punching ghosts and was now hiding behind a stone monument. “Seaworld doesn’t even _have_ tombstones,” he grumbled.

Just then, a lumpy ghost in a houndstooth fedora floated up behind him and brought down his sword, nearly cleaving Sam in two. Lucky for Sam, the ghost had poor hygiene and his ectoplasmic scent gave him away. Sam rolled out of striking range in the nick of time, but the sword managed to slice a couple of buttons off his shirt.

Sam quickly righted himself as fury swept through his bones.

“Alright you guys,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “Time to bring out the big guns.”

He pulled out a flask of holy water and lobbed it at a nearby mausoleum. The flask shattered, splashing the searing liquid onto three angry ghosts. They screamed as they melted into puddles of ectoplasm.

One particularly large ghost stopped in his tracks. “Whoa! Time out!”

Sam raised an eyebrow while Dean leaned against a withered tree for support.

“What the hell, guys?!” said the big ghost, glaring at Sam. “Was that holy water?”

Sam flashed them an innocent look. “Yes?”

“Not cool,” said a skinnier ghost, throwing down his ghost sword. "You're not playing fair."

Dean limped over to Sam, his arm hanging leaden at his side. Sam hoped he hadn’t scraped it on a rock or anything. He’d left his first aid kit in the Impala.

“Sam, I need to tell you some-” Dean began.

“Not now,” Sam hushed him. "The ghosts are talking."

“Damn right we are,” said the big ghost. From his appearance Sam was able to tell he had been a Roman centurion when he was alive. Standing next to the the centurion was a WWI aviator and a Victorian prostitute.

“Holy water kills us,” the centurion said with a wounded expression. “ _Again._ Some of us go to _double_ hell.”

The ghost aviator who had bit Dean leered at the older Winchester and winked. Dean grit his teeth and gripped his arm defensively.

“Whatever,” said Sam, indignantly. “You guys had swords.”

“What, these?” asked the centurion. He poked Sam with its sword. It went right through him without so much as piercing his flesh.

“Ghost swords can’t hurt you guys,” said the ghost. “I thought you knew that.”

"Sorry." Sam scratched his head, looking sheepish. "I forgot."

The centurion opened his arms in welcome. “We love you guys,” he said. "You two are, like, celebrities in the afterlife." A ghostly businessman floated through a gravestone to give Sam a high-five. It didn’t work because he was a ghost, but it was the thought that counted.

The centurion nudged the ghost beside him dressed like an 19th-century prostitute.

“Hey Lucy,” said the centurion, nodding toward Sam with his head. “Show the boys the story you wrote about them.”

Lucy blushed. Ghosts don't actually possess any color, so no one noticed except her.

She floated silently over to Sam, a thick sheaf of ghost papers in hand.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to Sam and his new ghost friends, something was happening to Dean. His left hand had frozen into a claw shape and his veins pulsed black against his skin. His face contorted in pain as his arm continued to stiffen.

“On the ghost internet--the aethernet,” Lucy began, speaking softly and delicately, her eyes downcast with embarrassment, “we like to write fanfiction about you guys.”

“Really?” asked Sam, curious in spite of himself.

“Oh yes,” said the ghost writer. “I personally like to write about how you two are ghosts who come to terms with your feelings for each other.” She handed Sam a piece of ghost paper. Sam squinted at it. Ghost script was hard to read.

“But we’re not ghosts,” he objected.

Lucy shrugged. “We don’t really care about characterization. And turning you into ghosts makes it easier for us to relate to you."

Sam frowned and read the story.

 

> _“Ghost Sam and Ghost Dean floated on a mountain of dead living people they had killed with their ghost jaws. It had been a tough battle, with Ghost Dean almost stumbling into a salt circle. The incident nearly gave his brother a heart attack, but ghosts don’t have hearts._
> 
> _As they recovered, something inside of Ghost Sam compelled him to open up to his brother. The thing inside him was feelings._
> 
> _‘Nearly losing you made me realize I love you,’ he said, his ghostly form shaking with emotion. ‘Romantically.’_
> 
> _‘God, I feel the same way,’ said Ghost Dean. ‘Really makes me wish we still had genitals, but we're ghosts now.’_
> 
> _They embraced and spent a passionate evening rubbing their ectoplasm together.”_

“This is terrible,” said Sam when he was finished. “That’s not us at all!”

“But this is how you act in my head,” said Lucy.

“Wait, do you even have a head?” asked Sam, looking up from the story. He paused for a moment. “How do ghosts have thoughts?”

Lucy's ghost lip quavered and she began to cry.

“Shame on you boys,” said the centurion, glaring at Sam and Dean. He turned to his fellow ghosts. “Let’s attack them with our surprisingly effective ghost bites!"

“Sam,” groaned Dean, clutching his arm. “I can’t go on.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Sam, warily eyeing the ghosts as they began their advance.

“I’ve been bitten,” said Dean. “By a ghost.”

"Shit." Sam looked at his brother's arm, now completely paralyzed by the bite. "This is bad, Dean. You know what happens when a ghost bites you.”

“Yes,” said Dean, his voice breaking. “I’m going to turn into a ghost.”

Sam shook his head. “What? No. Being _dead_ turns you into a ghost. Ghosts aren't werewolves, dude.”

Dean cocked his head, puzzled. "Then what’s happening to me?”

“When a ghost bites you, you turn into the object most desired by that ghost when it was alive,” said Sam, as if that were obvious.

"Oh." Dean examined his new form. “Well, that explains the wings.” Dean had turned into a Fokker D.VII biplane.

He revved up his engine and flew at the pack of ghosts, his twin 7.92mm machine guns blazing. He knew this was the end. To save his brother's life he would sacrifice himself in a final blaze of glory.

“Goodbye, Sam,” he screamed over the whine of his propeller. “I’ll never forget you!”

Sam ran after his brother in an attempt to stop him. “Dean, no! Don't do this!”

In one final act of martyrdom, Dean crashed into the mass of assembled ghosts. A fireball erupted from his fuselage, knocking over dozens of ancient gravestones with the force of his impact. This accomplished absolutely nothing as ghosts aren’t flammable.

Sam looked on in horror.

“I’m coming for you, Dean!” He cried, charging into the confused ghost army.

Suddenly Castiel appeared, blocking Sam's way.

"Sam, wait," Castiel said, lifting up his hand.

"Fuck off," said Sam. Whatever Castiel had to say, he didn’t want to hear it.

"You can’t save him," Castiel said, his face mournful. "Dean's gone." He tried placing a hand on Sam’s shoulder but Sam shrugged him off.

“Whatever,” said Sam, beginning to tear up. “I’ll claw my way to heaven and bring him back. Or hell. We do this shit all the time.”

Castiel shook his head. One look at the angel’s expression and Sam knew he'd really lost Dean for good.

"Why?" Sam demanded, heartbroken. “Why can’t I save him?”

"Because," said Castiel, his face grave. “Planes don’t have souls.”


End file.
